


His Dreams Upon My Memories

by uwukeres



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, Drabble, Fighting, Flashbacks, Fluff, M/M, Old work, SHEITH - Freeform, The Champion, fluff??, galra - Freeform, lowkey torture, uhhhhhhhhhhh this has been in my docs for like months
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-24
Updated: 2018-05-24
Packaged: 2019-05-13 11:36:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14748071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uwukeres/pseuds/uwukeres
Summary: His companion has messy black locks which seem to fall just above his shoulders, halo'ing the boy- it's defiantly a boys face- in a soft looking black pillow. Shiro wants to run his fingers through it, and he does just that. He cards his fingers through and Keith's entire body flops in his direction to nuzzle his hand. Something warm settles in his stomach, and Shiro chuckles softly and moved his other hand up to sweep dark bangs from the others tanned face.





	His Dreams Upon My Memories

The cold had settled deep into his bones, the restraints on his body cutting in. He hasn't moved in several hours and doesn't know if he will anytime soon– the Druids who carted his arm away repeatedly come in to check on him (Every 47 ticks, he supplies mentally.) . It feels like they haven't even cleared the blood from the newly-made stump, going by the tight cooling feeling. His fingers on his remaining arm tap rhythmically.

Thirty, Thirty-One, Thirty-Two.

He hasn't spoken, nor made any kind of noise since he screamed his throat raw during his impromptu "Surgery.". He doesn't know how long he's been here, in this room, but the pain in his throat is still raw as the nerve endings that they didn't seal. Maybe, it's a test of pain– to see how well he does without the adrenaline of a fight.

Thirty-Nine, Fourty, Fourty-One.

His resolve is slowly cracking like a fabric with loose seams. The Galra– Haggar, doing the pulling. His eyes droop, his hand slows; his mind becomes cloudy with the overwhelming need to sleep; he jerks himself back to consciousness.

Fourty-four, Fourty-five–

There's the sound of heavy, metal footsteps, accompanied by a buzzing of magic.

Fourty-Six, Fourty-Seven.

The doors whoosh open with a press of the Galran hand, and Shiro stills immediately- an involuntary action. He can feel it rather than feel it, the air crackling with quintennsents from Haggar, and the two Druids that approach with her. His prone form locks, his breath settling freezing into a lump in his windpipe. 

Haggar is coming closer to Shiro now, her steps soundless and robe unmoving. He refuses her the satisfaction of looking over. However, her spidery fingers close around his chin and forcefully tilts his head to face her and her Druids with a pop of his neck. He focuses on the guards with sharp eyes, and realizes that one is a medic. 

A medic with a large syringe gun with a yellow glowing light holstered in it. 

~~~

When Shiro wakes, it is to a warm body next to his. Their back his against his chest, their head tucked under Shiros chin. Black strands of hair tickle his chin and nose as the companion shifts, It's familiar– and comforting. He knows this person, he knows the scent of desert and tangy oil— His arms squeeze around the others chest, where they must have settled during the night. The black haired one stirs with a small sound of protest at waking up and Shiro loosens his arms allowing wiggle room for the other one, Whom shifts onto his back, giving the other man a view of his face.

His companion has messy black locks which seem to fall just above his shoulders, halo'ing the boy- it's defiantly a boys face- in a soft looking black pillow. Shiro wants to run his fingers through it, and he does just that. He cards his fingers through and Keith's entire body flops in his direction to nuzzle his hand. Something warm settles in his stomach, and Shiro chuckles softly and moved his other hand up to sweep dark bangs from the others tanned face. 

"Keith, Sweetheart, Its time to get up." 

~~~

They have him back in the arena by the weeks end. He isn't used to the Galran prosthetic they provided for him. Losing isn't a option– wether he has full functions of his "arm" or not. Shiro keeps winning with the artificial limb, standing broken in the sandy setting of the arena. He can hear voices all screaming his name even though he is kneeling. Blood drips from his nose and congeals in the sand. The "Champion" is held together on loose, frayed threads which at the end of every fight, loosen a little bit more.

He stumbles into the cooled corridors, Galra soldiers slapping him on the back as he passes. The Champions face stays pulled into a neutral expression as much as he can manage with the wound on his nose. He's brought back to his cell and roughly bandaged by a Galra solider.

~~~

Keith looks beautiful in his element, Shiro thinks, watching his lover race into the desert on the Hover Bike he fixed up on his own. Shiro knows little beyond what the Garrison required cadets to know. The older man was.. a little hopeless in the field, to be frank. He watched Keith race over small dunes, yelling in excitement. Shiros face stretches into a grin, Keith was cute.

There's this ability that the younger boy has that still leaves him breathless and weak in the knees– the uncanny ability to make him fall all over again for Keith. It was the small things, like, exclusively owning red towels (“There was a sale!” The black haired one always insisted. He would only grin and ruffle his hair in response.) or having a one minded focus on things that he was invested in. Or the fact that he was so damn stubborn. 

The other boy swings the hoverbike in the direction of their little home, where Shiro is leaning against the old wood. A seconds pause– and then Keith is barreling himself into Shiros arms hooting in pure unadulterated excitement. He steps away from the door to catch the skinnier man, whoms eyes are blown wide in the glow of sucess. 

Shiro grasps him- embraces him, and buries his face in Keith's dusty hair. He laughs with him, basking in Keith's happiness. They kiss, filled with cracked lips and the clanking of teeth and is much more of just jamming mouths together than anything– still fills Shiro with a sense of belonging because, In this moment, he does. This is enough to distract from the fact that the kiss is tasteless, not even of what they had for lunch lingering– and when he buries his face again in the others hair, he can't remember the scent of the raven locks.

He can't remember.

~~~  
.  
..  
...  
....

His face stayed drawn into a grimace as he prodded the tender area on the bridge of his nose. In the new cell, they gave him a fully functioning washroom complete with a mirror (unbreakable) and a shower area (it only ran cold) but it was better then nothing. What bothered Shiro the most about the change, however was that it was quiet. He couldn't hear other prisoners or see anyone else when he was escorted out. His only sounds were the mechanical tapping of patrolling guards and the light whirring on his prosthetic whenever he moved.

Leaving a man in the confines of his head is a sure fire way to get him killed. His breathing and stung nerve endings were the only thing that filled the stale air. Takashi isn’t sure how long he sat there, poking the puffy wound just for the sake of feeling something— anything– before a new guard is shoving a tray of slop through the little cubby near the bottom of the door. It locks itself loudly afterwords; Leaving him once again wrapped in a heavy blanket of quiet.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a hella old work. I think this was like circa S4??


End file.
